My Letters! all dead paper. . . (Sonnet XXVIII)

　　by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

　　 My letters！ all dead paper， mute and white！

　　 And yet they seem alive and quivering

　　 Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

　　 And let them drop down on my knee tonight.

　　 This said-he wished to have me in his sight

　　 Once， as a friend： this fixed a day in spring

　　 To come and touch my hand. . . a simple thing，

　　 Yes I wept for it-this . . . the paper's light. . .

　　 Said， Dear， I love thee； and I sank and quailed

　　 As if God's future thundered on my past.

　　 This said， I am thine-and so its ink has paled

　　 With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

　　 And this . . . 0 Love， thy words have ill availed

　　 If， what this said， I dared repeat at last